


Bedtime Story

by Rabid1st



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Phone Sex, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-09
Updated: 2017-02-09
Packaged: 2018-09-23 02:14:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9636344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rabid1st/pseuds/Rabid1st
Summary: Just a little sequel to The Doctor Always Rings Twice.





	

BEDTIME STORY  
by Rabid1st  
Doctor Who  
Rose/Ten  
Rating: Teen  
Beta: Nope...I'm swinging for the stars, baby!  
Spoilers: S2 – Tooth & Claw

Summary: This is a sequel to my short PWP and definitely Adult story, The Doctor Always Rings Twice. Turnabout is fair play and the Doctor gets a phone call, too, on a particularly restless night.

Disclaimer: I don't own any of these characters. And I've borrowed a lot of passages from erotic classics.

_Is she a pencil of ambrosia?_  
Is she a swelling flood of loveliness?  
Is she the beauty of the lotus flower?  
Is she a budding, flowering vine of love?  
Now that I've seen this lovely girl  
I cannot help thinking that all the world  
Except for her, is utterly in vain. 

 

Like an arrow loosed from Cupid's bow, a sharp pang arched through the Doctor's body from his loins to his chest. He sat bolt upright in bed, panting a little. That was weird. Squirming about, he tried in vain to get comfortable again, but finally gave up. He placed his book on the bedside table, shoved his feet into slippers and shuffled off to look for something else to read. He'd been enjoying the Sanskrit until the fever hit. Maybe he was coming down with something. He took his pulse. Rather racy.

Today had been a fairly uneventful day. They'd parked and puttered. He could think of no reason why every line of poetry tonight reminded him of Rose. Yesterday, had been riotous and surprising, of course, even for him. And the day before that, they'd met Queen Victoria. What a treat! Well, except for being banished from her kingdom. He'd encountered and vanquished his first werewolf. And he'd walked in on a naked Rose Tyler in the console room. She'd been in the middle of rummaging for clothes, crouched over her backpack, crimped hair spilling across her face and onto her breast, the budding flower of her sex on full display.

There had been nothing too surprising about that. Rose often stripped and dressed in front of him. In his previous incarnation, they'd bathed together in alien oceans, both sporting about completely nude. But yesterday, something in her bend and sway had caused a wash of heat to splash through his midsection. His eyes had fixed on the shadowed curve of her bare bottom as she'd stooped to tuck her knickers into the bin bag she used for laundry. He'd stood there gaping, silently admiring the play of muscles in her back and thighs as she shimmied into a new pair of lacy underpants. When her shimmying set his mouth to watering, he'd thought it best to intently consider the modulator in his right hand. He'd lowered his gaze to the rotor part and tinkered with it until he was certain Rose had finished dressing.

The intensity of his reactions troubled him. Human nudity had never caused him to feel even the slightest mating urge before this. But now he simmered, just off the boil. Waiting. Waiting. For what? What was he doing? What had changed? Well, he had changed, of course. But surely he wasn't thinking about sex...like...like...some non-Time Lord person might? It came down to that kiss while Rose was under Cassandra's control. It had reminded him of their other kiss. How Bad Wolf Rose had burned through him. Or perhaps it was the phone call he'd made to her room last week. He bit his lip at the memory. Rose had pleasured herself, while he listened in on the phone. Did he do that now? Did the new him listen in on her, not just by accident, but for personal pleasure? He sucked in air as the hot arrow struck again, twisting through him. Without even looking at titles, he picked a book and opened it to a random spot.

_”Let me put one little kiss on those holmberry lips, Tess, or even on that warmed cheek, and I'll stop—on my honor, I will!”_

_Tess, surprised beyond measure, slid further back still on her seat, at which he urged the horse anew, and rocked her the more._

“No, that will never do,” the Doctor said, shutting the book with a thump.

He sniffed as he placed Tess of the D'Urbervilles back into its space on the shelf. Moving along the row of similar tomes, his eye caught and dismissed title after title. The Venetian Epigrams by Goethe. The Tropic of Capricorn by Henry Miller. The Collected Letters of Abelard and Heloise. Dangerous Liaisons, Love in the Time of Cholera. There had to be something here to get his mind off Rose Tyler's dewy lips and silken curves. The aching clench in his belly was a delicious torture. It made his mouth water. He'd had no idea the written word could be so stimulating. Or that he owned so many provocative titles.

“Ah, this is more like it,” he said, drawing forth a text by Lucretius and blowing dust from the spine. “The Nature of the Universe. Nothing like a little laugh-out-loud, human philosophy to clear the mind of ill humors.” He opened the book to the ribbon marking a page and read. __

_So, when a man is pierced by the shafts of Venus, whether they are launched by a lad with womanish limbs or a woman radiating love from her whole body, he strives toward the source of the wound and craves to be united with it and to transmit something of his own substance body to body. His speechless yearning is..._

“Yes, quite! Not really in the mood for transmitting substances. All of that-what? That yearning, pointless piercing, just at the moment.”

He shoved the book back onto its shelf and mounted a ladder to rummage among his rarely accessed tomes. He cast them aside one by one until he laid hands upon The Life of Saint Teresa of Avila by the lady herself. The life of a saint by a saint, sure to be nothing but piety and peace. He read a few pages and yawned. Perfect. Just the thing to lull him into a pleasant state of restful relaxation. He climbed down, smacked the dust off his trouser front and settled into bed again. Opening the book, he began to read.

_Our Lord was pleased at times to have me see the following vision...an angel, close at hand, in bodily form. ..._ He resolutely pushed away the immediate vision of Rose's angelic figure and continued reading. _...to say he was one of the higher angels who seem to be made all of fire..._ He'd seen Rose made of fire, the fire of the Vortex forming a halo around her. Her mouth on his. The essence of her burning into his very marrow. _I can see that in Heaven there is a great difference between one type of angel and another.... In his hand he had a long spear made of gold, and at the spear's point was the burning of a fire. He appeared to me to be thrusting it into me, into my heart, then piercing into my very entrails. When he drew it back out, he seemed to draw my entrails with it and to leave instead only the burning fire of God inside me. The pain was so great it made me moan out and yet it was of such tremendous sweetness—yes, the pain was sweet...that I might never wish it to end._

The book's spine cracked as he snapped the cover closed. He groaned. Lust clawed at him as he recalled the sensation of his own entrails drawn forth, the taste of Rose on his tongue and the twisting spear of the Vortex in his gut. Providence appeared to be hounding him, baying at his heels. Fine. He didn't need to read. He would simply clear his mind and rest. A few rounds of recreational maths would ease him into a meditative state.

Folding his hands above his second jacket button, he closed his eyes and settled the base of his skull into his pillow. He'd just started computing square roots of imaginary numbers when he heard a chirping noise. It took him a moment or two to recognize the sound. It was Rose's mobile phone. He sat up, triangulated the ring and patted under his pillow until he found the hard, unmistakable shape of the mobile. Drawing it to him, he flipped it open and read the caller id on the screen.

\--TARDIS CALLING--

He pressed the talk button and said, “Hello?”

“Hi,” Rose purred. “You found my phone.”

“I did.”

“Where was it?”

“In my bed. Under a pillow.”

She spoke with a breathy warmth. “Yeah, about that...I can explain.”

“You were tiding up?”

Her laugh had a silky undertone. “Not likely. I was looking for something. A book.”

“Which book?”

“That one you mentioned about Time Lords.”

He thought back over the last few days. “I mentioned a book about Time Lords? When?”

“Not, recently. And, not to me, exactly,” she blurted in a breathless rush. “Do you remember when we visited Kyoto and Jack suggested the two of you share a...a room?”

“Kyoto? Y-yes,” he said very carefully. He still didn't see where she was going with this.

“You said you didn't think sharing was going to work out the way Jack hoped. You said you'd get him a book when we got back to the TARDIS.”

“Oh! Oh, that book,” he murmured. He knew it would be gone but his eyes went instinctively to the correct shelf, to the exact location. The book wasn't there.

There was a sound on the far end of the line, a rustling of paper as she turned a few pages. “This is all very enlightening,” she said. “I had no idea you were so complicated. Especially, in the area of--chapter fifty-seven.” She read the chapter title aloud, “On the sexual appetite and human copulation.”

“It does not even say that. Rose, I don't think you should be reading that particular chapter. The TARDIS can't properly translate--" 

"You know she likes me."

"There are things in that chapter that aren't very flattering to my species.”

“What chapter should I be reading?”

He didn't want her to learn how her people had been used, enslaved and experimented on, during the long, dark history of Gallifrey. His mind frantically dredged up what he could remember of his planet's sexual history. “Check the index,” he said. “Is there an entry for Rylevesk'truska and Jillian Merchant?”

“How do you spell that? R--I--L? Oh, here it is, under Merchant. Page 842.” He heard her turning pages again. “Jillian Merchant was purchased from a Sontaran slaver at the age of...." She cleared her throat at him. "Excuse me, Time Lords had human slaves?”

“A long time ago, yes.”

“Like...sex slaves?”

“No, definitely not. Not sex slaves. Not as such. No! That is no human was ever purchased for that express purpose.”

“My God, Doctor, it says here she was only six.”

“And she most certainly was an adult woman before...well...anything possibly happened to her.”

“She was still a slave,” Rose accused. “Right here, in black and white, it says that she was purchased by this Ryle-whatever and he....just...Uh! Oh...wow!”

“Yes, see? This is what I mean about reading,” he said gently.

There was a long pause and then Rose said, “I'm not reading. There are pictures.”

“Oh, Rassilon spare me, I forgot about the color plates.”

“I'm thinking that has to be really uncomfortable the first couple of times.”

“I'm hanging up the phone.”

“No, no! Wait,” she pleaded. “Please? I know you don't even think about this stuff. I'll put the book away and we can just...talk, yeah?"

“Talk?”

“Mmmhmm,” she hummed. “Like last time."

"Talk about what?"

"You could tell me a story.”

“What kind of story?” he asked, squinting in suspicion even as he relaxed again into his pillow.

“A bedtime story," Rose said, in a teasing lilt. "Let's see...once upon a time there was an Earth girl named Rose and she was tragically stolen away from her home by a Sontaran slave trader.”

“Don't even joke about that,” he said sternly.

“She's rescued, of course," Rose assured him.

"Rescued?"

"Almost immediately, yeah, by a dashing Time Lord.”

“Dashing, is he? Big ears and all?”

“He doesn't have big ears,” Rose said primly. “He's all fit and bouncy. Rather handsome, actually, in his brown pin-striped suit and trainers.”

“Oh, that Time Lord,” he said, letting her hear his smile. His voice grew honey sweet. “Does she fancy him, then?”

“No, not really."

“No?” So much for his seductive tone. Might as well be gargling for all the notice she took.

“Give her time,” Rose said, “They just met.”

“So, he takes her to see Ian Dury in concert.”

“Elvis," she corrected him.

“You are kidding, right?”

“I am not."

"Hit me with your rhythm stick? No?"

"A Little Less Conversation," Rose said firmly. 

"A little more action," he agreed.

"He takes her to see Elvis in concert, and then,” she said in a prompting fashion, “afterwards...?”

“Afterwards,” he said thoughtfully. What would they do after the concert? What would she be wearing? The eddy of fire swirled through him again. He shivered. “Beforehand,” he whispered.

“Beforehand?”

“Before they land,” he said. “She has to change her clothes. Into-into something more fitting...to the era. Something frilly and pink, with black stockings and heels.”

"Doctor?" Rose exclaimed in faux shock, a laugh in her voice. “And her hair up in a bow?”

“Definitely,” he said. “Hair up. Bare shoulders. Bare everything...almost. Because, she's standing there in her stockings and underclothes in the middle of the console room, just an ordinary day on the TARDIS. He's seen it before. Naked human. Nothing to write poems about. But there's something...new. The curve of her back, drawing him closer--irresistible.”

“Does he want to touch her?”

“Very much.”

“So he does?”

“No." His voice broke as he swallowed. Unable to speak, he ran his tongue over his lips. “No, he doesn't. He can't even...think, dare. Because...”

“Because...?”

He breathed out his confession, “Because he's afraid. Afraid of her. She's like fire inside of him, burning, a thousand suns, burning him away.”

“She makes him burn?”

“Oh, yes! Her touch. Her mouth. He's kissed her. She doesn't remember, but he has. And she was full of fire. All of time and space melting into nothing. So hot. Everywhere. Inside him, in his mind. He can't forget what it felt like. And the thought of it...is so-? So very...”

She sighed, long and breathy, before asking, "What, Doctor?"

His whole body throbbed with need. He wanted to tell her everything. How he felt. Show her. Rose should be here, in his bed, under him, writhing and moaning. His hands in her hair. Her hands on his back, stroking, clinging, her nails biting deep as his mouth claimed every last inch of her. Caught up in the fantasy, he closed his eyes, arching his neck. His fingers clenched around the phone. The blasted thing beeped, breaking the spell of memory. No. He wasn't human. And she wasn't the Bad Wolf.

“Doctor? Don't hang up.”

“I-I'm--I'm sorry I have to. I'm ringing off, now,” he said and did. He should put it out of his mind. All of this phoning, it wasn't Gallifrey-approved. Positively unnatural. The mobile chirped a moment later. He ignored it, but it rang again and again. Flipping it open, he snarled, “What?”

“I'm on my way to your room,” Rose said. "Don't run away."

“Rose, do not even think about--ROSE?”

“It can't be as uncomfortable as it looks in the picture,” she reasoned. “And, you're not the only one who burns.”

"This is not going to happen. I won't let it. You can't make me. ROSE?"

The phone went dead. She'd hung up on him. He threw the mobile aside and grabbed a pillow, as if it might shield him from assault. Three minutes later, there was a knock at his door.

"I'm not here," he shouted. "Go away!" 

"Doctor? Open this door."

The knocking came a second time. 

“Oh, what's the use?” he grumbled. “I'm never going to get any rest at this rate.” Tossing the pillow aside, he got up and sidled toward the door. "Seriously," he said, "this is a truly awful idea."

THE END


End file.
